


Giving Thanks

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alone at Thanksgiving?, Craigslist ad, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Mad at your Dad?, Modern AU, Nobody knows, Recreational Drug Use, Thanksgiving, and Grif is oblivious, in which Simmons is rebellious, why does Simmons live in Iowa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:39:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: In which video game designer and college student Dick Simmons enlists a stranger from Craigslist to accompany him to his family's Thanksgiving dinner party, and things spiral out of control from there.





	1. Simmons

**Author's Note:**

> *rises out from the abyss to present you with This Trash*
> 
> http://whiskerknittles.tumblr.com/post/130860262177 <<<<< the culprit
> 
> obviously this will be a multiple chapter fic-- please motivate me to complete this before the end of the month, and on a related note please link me to every Grimmons fake relationship au you know of because, seriously, there are not enough. (there are NEVER enough)

Dick Simmons had spent the last twenty-seven holiday seasons of his life a total and unambiguous disappointment to his family. More than just that, he’d spent them excruciatingly single. In his opinion, there was only one thing worse than holidays with distant and highly judgmental relatives and your distant yet malicious father—and that was spending them alone.

Simmons had dated, in the past, but never long or intimately enough that he would be willing to expose them to the deplorable experience that was the Simmons’ Family Holiday Experience. If he showed up to another Thanksgiving dinner party at his grandfather’s estate on his own for the twenty-eighth consecutive year, however, he might actually go completely insane.

Which was why he was searching Craigslist, searching for a cheap and discrete plastic flask he could stow in his jacket pocket during the upcoming holiday weekend.

Because, you know; that was obviously the sign of a stable mind.

He’d considered on a number of occasions simply skipping the gathering all together—it wasn’t really like his presence was so avidly desired there, anyway—but after so many years of suffering, it was almost a form of self-punishment he felt driven to partake in. It wasn’t the fact that he was a disappointment to his father, to his family as a whole, that was so goddamn unbearable; it was the fact that he hadn’t done anything to deserve that level of absolute shame and dismissal.

He was a moderately successful video game designer for a semi-popular company in the United States—not a doctor or a lawyer or a politician like almost everyone else in his family, but well off in his field. He had yet to settle down with anyone, or even begin to consider kids—a grievous oversight on his part, according to the elder generations of his family, whereas his similarly aged cousins had all been married with at least one child by twenty-five. He didn’t have a quaint house in the suburbs (his apartment was quite nice, however, he thought) and he rode a motorcycle rather than a mini-van: the single most appalling thing he had actively decided to do since he moved out of his father’s house, it seemed, given the reactions he received upon mentioning it three years previously. But that was it; he hadn’t committed any crimes, he’d earned his Bachelor’s degree as valedictorian of his class, and was in the process of earning his Master’s, which put him ahead of most of his peers, and yet somehow, he was still an embarrassment to his family.

He was looked down upon by the entirety of his genetic lineage, and he hadn’t even done something truly horrible to warrant it. And that… that was beyond frustrating.

Then, at around three o’clock, when Simmons was finishing off his second hard lemonade and preparing to give up his search for the perfect flask for the night, a caption on one of the ads caught his eye.

**_Alone at Thanksgiving? Mad at your Dad?_ **

Heh. As if there’d been a moment in his life that he wasn’t angry at his father. He clicked the link just for the fun of it, and was not disappointed.

_I am a 28 year old felon with no high school degree, and a_

_dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie_

_Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of_

_20 and 29 depending on if i shave. I’m a line cook and work_

_late nights at a bar. If you’d like to have me as your strictly_

_platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in_

_a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your_

_family, I’m game._

_I can do these things, at your request:_

_openly hit on other guests while you act like you don’t notice_

_start instigative discussions about politics and/or religion_

_propose to you in front of everyone_

_pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on (sorry, i_

_dont drink, but i used to. alot. too much in fact. i know the_

_drill)._

_Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either_

_inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see._

_I require no pay but the free meal i will receive as a guest!_

Undoubtedly, this was the single most relevant ad on Craigslist Simmons had ever seen. A few pictures accompanied the advertisement: one of the aforementioned van, which indeed, bore a striking resemblance to Eddie’s guitar, along with an image of the inside of the vehicle—good god, it looked like a drug den, string lights and oversized bean bag included, with an insurmountable amount of clothes piled on the floor so thickly the bottom of the van itself wasn’t visible in the image. Clearly, the man in question (Simmons was willing to speculate that it was a man, even without a photograph of the advertiser included) not only owned the van, but _lived_ in it. There was what appeared to be a neon orange ukulele in a makeshift sink against the wall, balanced against a stack of comic books and miniature pizza boxes. If he squinted, Simmons could make out what appeared to be an X Files poster in the far corner of the image, plastered against the door.

Simmons sipped at his drink, only faintly buzzed, and allowed himself for just a moment to entertain the idea of replying to the ad. First of all, this individual was clearly the furthest possible thing from ideal that Simmons could possibly achieve in his family’s eyes when it came to a partner. A high school dropout, not even college, _high school_ , and a felon? He wondered what kind of crime the guy had committed and hazarded that it was probably drugs, which was acceptable. Not likely dangerous, at least, and considering the fact that he’d specifically indicated that he didn’t drink, if he still did drugs they probably weren’t extremely dangerous. Two dead-end jobs, no evident career ambition, obviously not in a committed relationship nor in any hurry to start a family—if anything, he probably was the type who’d actively avoid having children.

And that was just the start. That was just what this guy was like, _for real_. Simmons could only imagine what kind of outlandish propositions he could come up with that this guy would casually partake in, without hesitation. The list of possible interactions the advertiser indicated was clearly flexible, and considering how uptight and pretentious his family was, Simmons was willing to bet he’d have no problem whatsoever showing this man how to crawl up his family’s skin in exactly the right way to drive them away from his personal life for the foreseeable future.

 Hell, Simmons thought with a little mirth, it would certainly get them off his case about finding a significant other for good.

…

Wait.

_Wait._


	2. Grif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter Grif receives an unexpected message. But he was never one to back down from an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about the format of Craigslist, obviously. Bear with me

Dexter Grif had initially posted the Craigslist ad as a joke. Obviously.

That wasn’t to say that he wouldn’t be more than willing to partake in such a ludicrously elaborate con just for the fun of it—like seriously, who would pass up such a golden opportunity to be a complete asshole? And free food on top of it? Hell yeah. He’d do it in a second. He just never expected there to be someone who’d care to take him up on it.

So, when his cell phone plinked abruptly in his pocket, he automatically assumed it was his sister. She’d been texting him almost daily since he had gotten a job at a dive-y little restaurant and bar on the far end of town, eagerly hoping that at some point that her older and of age brother would eventually lose his resolve and sneak her into the bar for late night drinks. She was mistaken, since Grif was in no rush to encourage his sister down the same path of alcoholism he had stumbled down in his late teenage years.

Besides, he didn’t even work the bar—he manned the kitchen in the back, usually on his own or in the company of some local high school kid who came in on weekends to do the dishes—and he had no intentions of attempting to persuade the disconcertingly unfriendly barkeep to break the law for his twenty-year-old sister.

His phone blipped a second time and he huffed aloud. Well, she was stubborn, Grif would give her that. It was about time for him to clock out, anyway; the clock read two minutes before three in the morning and, stack of unwashed dishes or not, he had zero motivation to stick around for an extra half hour of overtime. Dumping the remainder of the dishes into a basin of lukewarm soapy water for the morning guy, he pulled off his apron and threw it into the backroom, punching the clock on his way out the back door. He didn’t have far to go; his van was parked behind the building, and usually remained there throughout the week, the bar owner only shooing him out of the space on garbage night so the garbage truck could get to the dumpster without too much trouble.

He hopped into the driver’s seat and took out his phone, surprised to see that it was not, in fact, a message from Sister—instead, two alerts presented themselves on his lock screen from Craigslist:

_Your ad has received (1) comment!_

_Your ad has received (2) comments!_

Grif actually had to think about it for a minute before he remembered what he’d put up for sale, and when he did, he laughed aloud. He wondered what trolling asshole had found the faux advertisement at three a.m. and felt the need to respond to it, just three days before Thanksgiving Day. He viewed the first comment, a single sentence:

_What kind of felony was it?_

A reasonable question, he supposed, but he wasn’t interested in sharing his life story with an anonymous commenter.

**Grand Theft Auto, Larseny, and Arson**

He scrolled down to the next comment, and snorted a little at it.

_If my family is vegan, will the meal still be considered acceptable payment?_

**No; however, family dinner may be substituted with a large, stuffed crust pizza with bacon and pineapple, or other edible option of equal or greater value.**

He put down his phone and snagged a cigarette from the middle console. He preferred a nice fat blunt after work, generally, but he wasn’t in the mood for rooting around in the back for his stash box that night, so he settled for a few hits of nicotine. He was barely finished pulling in a single breath before his phone screen lit up beside him.

_Your ad has received (1) comment!_

Holding his cigarette out of the open window while he leaned over to pick up his phone, Grif idly considered ordering a pizza for himself before he passed out; if nothing else, it would give him a place to park for a while that wouldn’t stink like day old vomit and onion rings.

_Since you misspelled Larceny and you’re not currently in jail, I’m going to guess that you’re lying about at least two of those. Not a very good start to business negotiations, you know. Also, bacon AND pineapple on pizza? That’s blasphemous._

So, it was probably the same person that had left both comments, Grif thought. He smirked.

**Since I’m the only guy offering these services, i think ive pretty much cornered the market anyway, but you’re welcome to take your business elsewhere if you’re so inclined. And bacon pineapple pizza is a flavor combination fit for the gods, fyi.**

Grif sat back, taking a long drag of his cigarette, when his phone went off again.

_I think I’ll just stick to peppers and onions, thanks. But my family isn’t vegan anyway, so it doesn’t matter. They’re red blooded hunters, so fresh deer and turkey is always on the table._

**Why’d you ask then?**

A few minutes later:

_Just curious about your policy._

Grif rolled his eyes, presuming that the conversation had ended, when he received yet another message.

_How far do you live from Des Moines Iowa?_

Grif blinked. Hold on; were they serious?

**Are you serious?**

For a few minutes, there was no response to his question, and despite himself, Grif found himself wondering just how far away Des Moines, Iowa was from his current location. He was on the very edge of Nevada, and considering the mostly open roads of the American Midwest, he couldn’t imagine that it would take more than a few hours, tops. Once he thought about it, he recognized that he really didn’t have any plans for the holiday weekend—tomorrow night was his last shift until the following Monday—anyway, besides smoke weed and play his ukulele. And those activities could only kill so much time, really.

**I mean, dude, I live in my van. And honestly I’d drive all the way from Seattle to Los Angeles if it means I can ruin Thanksgiving for someones douchey family.**

After another five minutes, Grif began to doubt that the person he’d been talking to was going to reply—but then his phone plinked to life and he opened the message immediately.

_You have no idea how much I’d love to fuck with my family like this._

Grif grinned.

**Oh yeah, i do. Whats your info?**

_I’ll private message it to you._

Within five minutes, Grif had a phone number and an address for an apartment complex in Des Moines. He texted the number, and waited patiently for a response to confirm.

_The middle finger emoji? Really?_

**Wasn’t sure what else to say. So, I’ll head out tomorrow after work and reach you Wednesday afternoon. Sound good?**

_Works for me. We can work out the rest of the details when you get here- it’ll be easier in person._

**Sure thing. Oh, by the way, the name’s Grif**

_..Grif?_

**Dexter Grif. You?**

_Richard Simmons. My family calls me Dick_

**Wow. No wonder you want to fuck up their holiday**

Grif smiled to himself, a prickle of excitement sparking in his chest. He wasn’t sure where the weekend was going to take him, but he had a feeling that things were only going to get better from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be back to Simmons' pov. Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. A Very Good Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif meets Simmons. Simmons meets Grif.

It was just past three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, with Simmons was perched on the front steps of his apartment building, arms folded tightly across his chest in defense of the autumn chill, when the van Halen pulled up along the side of the road. Simmons stood up and approached the vehicle slowly, watching the driver step out, and his mouth fell open as the stranger approached.

“Oh,” he said.

“What?” Grif replied, his tone indignant when he detected Simmons’ disappointment.

“Uh no, it’s not—I guess I was just hoping you would be more…” Simmons hesitated as he looked at Dexter Grif for the first time. He was shorter than Simmons, and clearly heavyset, but the weight suited him. His skin was a natural bronze, easily non-European—score one for pissing off Dad—and thick tendrils of curly dark hair hung low around his shoulders, like a lion’s mane. His face was soft and sloping, with a swipe of thick facial hair on his chin that on someone else would probably have looked trashy. On Grif, however, it was almost flattering. Warm brown eyes stared back at him, warm and kind, but with a slight fire to them, a warning of the man’s evident playful nature. “… unattractive?” Simmons furrowed his brows. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever given to a person.”

“Well, that’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten, so thanks,” Grif said, smirking. “I guess you’re not unattractive too.”

“Not unattractive _either_ ,” Simmons corrected him, and Grif snorted.

“Sure, mom, I’ll remember that little grammar tip.”

“Are you always this way?”

“What way?”

“Obstinate and pugnacious.”

Grif stared at him. “I mean, I _guess_ I like it doggy-style, if that’s what you’re looking for. I’ve never heard anyone call it pug-nasty, though.”

“ _Pugnacious!_ Meaning confrontational! Belligerent! Truculent!” Simmons could feel his cheeks flaming red as Grif sauntered amicably over to him.

“Fuck me, I didn’t know I agreed to fake date a walking thesaurus,” Grif smirked at him, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Or do you think it would drive your family crazier if I confused thesaurus with dictionary?”

Simmons froze, staring back at Grif with wide eyes, and suddenly realized just how good of an idea this was.

A very, very good one.

 

\--

 

Richard “Dick” Simmons was not even remotely what Grif would have expected. Sure, he looked pretty nerdy, but he wasn’t the pale, red haired walking freckle that he’d been expecting. Rather than a tiny, button-nosed mess of gangly limbs and buck teeth, he was almost a full foot taller than Grif, with sun-tanned skin and a long, slender face. His hair was dark blond, and smoothed back into a short pony, but a single strand had escaped its prison and hung over his forehead, apparently unbeknownst to him. His eyes were a deep, almost turquoise green, and upon closer inspection Grif discovered to his surprise that he happened to have more freckles than his host.

The look on Simmon’s face when Grif got out of the van Halen was amusing—at first. Pursed lips falling to a slack-jawed awe when he rounded the vehicle, revealing himself to Simmons for the first time.

The following “Oh”, accompanied by a furrowed brow of evident disappointment, however, immediately made the initial look of surprise far less amusing to him.

“What?” Grif snapped, affronted and just slightly self-conscious about his unbrushed hair and stained t shirt.

“Uh no, it’s not—I guess I was just hoping you would be more… attractive?” He winced at his own pathetic introduction, and Grif brushed it off naturally, slipping in his own backwards compliment about Simmons’ unexpectedly notable good looks. The compliment, however, was lost in a mistake of grammar, apparently; and that was when Grif realized that this had been a good idea.

A very, very good idea.

Sister had been badgering him to join she and her college friends for their holiday celebration, but he hadn’t been exactly thrilled by the prospect of piggybacking on his younger sister to get social interaction—especially when she was adamant about trying to hook him up with one of her old connections, a venture which Grif had absolutely zero interest in exploiting, even if she insisted that Carolina was “outrageously hot”; he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with Sister spending the weekend complaining about the fact that she never got to rag on him for dating anyone.

That wasn’t to say that Grif had _no_ interest in relationships—he was, however, of the opinion that if you were going to explore the possibility of spending the rest of your mortal existence joined hypothetically at the hip with a person, then you’d better feel more than just tolerant about said person. In his near thirty years of life, not once had Grif felt particularly bound to anyone in such a way that he’d so much as consider lifelong commitment, and if he was going to be honest, he’d sure as hell rather have his twin size mattress to himself for the rest of his life rather than share it with someone he was more or less ambivalent about, and he had never felt more than moderately affectionate for any of this previous romantic partners. Often, they tended to peter out after just a couple of months.

So really, this whole scheme was a fabulous excuse to get out of an awkward blind date, and as a bonus, he got to see the look on Simmons’ face when he realized Grif didn’t actually think that ‘pugnacious’ was another word for ‘doggy-style’.

At first, the bright flush of his cheeks remained evident, and Grif wondered if Simmons missed the joke completely. But then—those pursed lips gave way to a wide, disbelieving smile, and then he laughed, loud and obnoxious, and Grif found himself immediately charmed. He chucked too, a little subtler than Simmons, but the mirth in his eyes was certainly obvious.

“God, you really had me,” Simmons said, once he had caught his breath, and Grif nodded proudly.

“Years of practice. I’m a jerkoff and all around sass master.”

“You should put that on your resume,” Simmons teased.

Grif scratched his head in confusion. “Isn’t that a button on the remote?”

“Yeah, too much.”

“That’s fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS HEEEEERRRRREEEEEEE
> 
> I apologize profusely for the long delay. I've been working hard on an original novel this summer, and I didn't want to go into this chapter half-assed. As they say, never half-ass two things, whole-ass one thing.
> 
> I will work to try and bring a new chapter every week from here on (barring any unforeseen internet connectivity issues) and thank you so much for the patience you've had with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title recommendations? I got nothing here


End file.
